


The Interrogation

by vxctorvale



Category: Serovolk, Майор Гром | Major Thunder, Сероволк - Fandom
Genre: Fire, Interrogation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Payback, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, fight, vengeance, violent payback
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28676736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vxctorvale/pseuds/vxctorvale
Summary: After the fire at the psychiatric hospital, Veniamin Rubinstein finally receives the long overdue payback.
Relationships: Chumnoy Doctor | Plague Doctor | Sergey Razumovsky & Oleg Volkov, Chumnoy Doctor | Plague Doctor | Sergey Razumovsky/Oleg Volkov
Kudos: 9





	The Interrogation

“Where am I?” He thrashed in his seat, testing the bonds. Volkov only watched, leaning back against the back of his chair. He’d tied Rubinstein’s wrists, ankles and torso to the chair with thick rope. “What do you want from me?”   
“I want you to tell me everything,” Oleg rasped. “Everything about how you ‘treated’ my friend.” 

“What?” He shifted his head from side to side, still dazed. Perhaps Oleg had overestimated the man’s tolerance for sedative drugs. 

Oleg followed Rubinstein’s glance around the room. It was a sturdy old place, with a single large windowless room illuminated only by the flames in the fireplace and the lit up candelabra. The place had modest furniture - a large table, several chairs - some nailed to the floor. 

“Sergey Razumovskiy. What did you do to him?” Oleg asked calmly. For several seconds they sat in silence, only the crackle of the flames from the fireplace and Rubinstein’s shallow breaths reverberating through the space. 

“Who the hell are you?” Rubinstein’s voice rose to a pitch. He squinted, trying to find some semblance of familiarity in Oleg’s face in the soft warm light. 

“That should be the least of your concerns.”

Then Rubinstein started to scream for help. Oleg didn’t react; he waited till the man got exhausted enough to stop. And it didn’t take long. A minute or two later, the psychiatrist understood the futility of his pathetic attempts. He stared at Oleg, terrified.

“I think you misunderstand the situation here.” Oleg extended his hand toward the gun. “You can scream and thrash as much as you want to, but that won’t get us anywhere; we’re far enough to stay unseen and unheard. So it is in your best interest to cooperate.”

Rubinstein eyed the gun on the table, then Oleg, then the gun again. He shrunk back into the chair.

“I..I need guarantees that you’ll let me go.” Oleg smirked.  _ So clever.  _ The man had a remarkable voice - the tone alone incited submission and agreement. Except now neither his tone nor the content of his speech could help him.

“I’m afraid you’re not in the position to ask for guarantees.”

“Please...” Rubinstein whispered, slowly realizing the inevitable. “I’ll tell you what you need to know!” 

“You know he says that sometimes.” Oleg said, leaning forward. “In his sleep, when the nightmares become intense enough, you can hear him murmur a soft ‘please’.” His voice grew quieter. When Sergey begged for a release from another painful reverie, all Oleg could do was hold him tight, waiting for the tremors to pass. “And I can only wonder how much of those nightmares is  _ your _ doing.”

“I can help him!” Oleg glared at him, rage flaring inside him once again, sending a cold, merciless current through his body. Help him? Oleg pulled out a small pocket knife, opened it and aimed it casually at the man before him. 

“The funny thing is,” Oleg twirled the knife between his fingers. He could feel Rubinstein’s stare following his every movement. Guessing what Oleg would do next. Shuddering every time the glint of steel caught his eye. “We never thought you had any part in the worsening of his condition. After all, you were a routine part of a rotten system, checking every criminal with questionable mental state. Until we checked how Grom was doing. And what a surprise - he was locked in a mental asylum under the noble care of Veniamin Rubinstein. That’s when it all clicked together into a neat little puzzle.” Volkov stood up from his seat, taking a step towards his hostage. After they learnt about Grom’s whereabouts, securing Rubinstein was a question of days. Sergey wanted Oleg to bring him to the spot too, but Oleg wouldn’t concede to that. He’d seen Sergey snap into a fit at the mere sight of his scars in the bathroom mirror, the first time he saw them. He didn’t want to test the chance to see what Rubinstein would incite. He didn’t want Sergey to relive any part of the ‘therapy’ he went through, and that meant Oleg wouldn’t let Sergey see or talk to Rubinstein. Not now. Not when they’d started to make progress.

“I’ll ask again,” he pressed the edge of the knife under the psychiatrist’s chin, directing his gaze up. Rubinstein tried to keep his trembling jaw shut tight, but every part of his body betrayed him; Oleg saw the pure, uncovered fear in the bastard’s eyes, saw the droplets of sweat slowly trickle down his temples,saw how twitchy his fingers had become.  _ Good. _ “What the fuck did you do to Sergey?”

“I..I’ll tell you everything,” he blabbered. “Just, please,  _ please  _ take the knife away!”

Oleg smiled then. He stepped back, taking his seat again. Volkov leaned back, putting the knife on the table. 

“I’ve read the official files. Your reports.” Oleg tipped his head toward the thick folder on the table. Hundreds of pages of witness testimonies, dozens of pictures from the prisons, the laboratories and the asylums Sergey had been transported to at one point or another that sent shivers even down Oleg’s spine “I can recite them to you word by word, so that’s not what I’m here for. I want you to tell me everything you hid, lied about and chose not to mention in these papers. Don’t try to lie; patience may be one of my stronger suits, but it is wearing thin.”

“Whatever you take from this, my intentions were never against your friend,” he began cautiously. Oleg had to restrain himself not to roll his eyes. “Your friend’s disease was a fascinating case… Something I’d never seen before. I doubt anyone ever has. It was simply remarkable in its sickness. A true prize rather than a patient.”  _ It _ . He called Sergey  _ It _ . A thing. An experiment. Rubinstein studied Oleg’s reaction. Despite every fiber of his being, Oleg kept his passive expression in place. From what intel he’d gathered on the psychiatrist, Rubinstein was known to be a talker. And Oleg needed him to loosen up just enough to give him what he needed. “But I got to Razumovskiy too late. I could only watch the disease in its prime. The man was too weak to battle it alone or with medical intervention. I could treat the symptoms, but the cause stayed hidden. So I resorted to… less traditional treatments. To find the essence of Sergey’s condition. If I couldn’t treat him, I’d observe him and perhaps help others.”

Oleg didn’t know what he expected from Rubinstein’s story. He had to remind Rubinstein about the knife and the gun every time the man chose to gloss over some details. A large chunk of it was the senseless babble of a terrified man; some parts Oleg barely registered. But he wasn’t worried about that; he was recording Rubinstein’s every word, and he would go through them a thousand times over if need be. Every time Rubinstein stopped, Oleg only glanced at him expectantly, stretching the silence and the psychiatrist’s unease. Rubinstein would go on, and his every word slowly but surely sealed his fate. 

“The medication he was given, it was… experimental,” he said. Oleg leaned forward, alarmed. He knew the drugs they’d given to Sergey weren’t exactly ordinary, but considering how profound their effects were and how Sergey still struggled with the aftermath, Oleg could have only wondered what ‘experimental’ meant. Until now. Rubinstein clearly saw Oleg’s renewed interest. He hesitated.

“What medication?” Rubinstein flinched, refusing to meet Oleg’s gaze. “I will not repeat myself again.” 

Rubinstein exhaled, still looking down at the floor, and continued. “There were several drugs I had administered to him. Strongest nootropics available. One of them I had curated myself; it was meant to be a stronger version of the usual antipsychotic we use on patients suffering from schizophrenia, but with Sergey it had a… different effect.” He swallowed. Oleg knew where this was going. He wished he’d be proven wrong. “The hallucination would subside after immediate consumption, but given time and a larger dose, the drug did quite the opposite. It made Razumovskiy more violent with the inmates, less responsive, and it gave way for … the other self. I saw it as an opportunity to see that other persona of his for myself. To see how a man’s mind kept two separate entities inside.”

He should’ve distanced himself. Should’ve been cold and detached to get more information. But that was beyond Oleg; all he could think about now was Sergey under the heavy dosage of hallucinogens, when he was told those would stop his visions. He could imagine his lover’s fleeting hope disappear, as Ptitza took hold of him. With Rubinstein’s assistance. Oleg’s hand closed around the gun. He gripped his weapon until the metal dug into his skin. He wished he’d brought a damned machine gun. Rubinstein stopped abruptly. Oleg stood up. The gun in his hand, he walked past Rubinstein’s chair. He could no longer stand seeing the son of a bitch. He didn’t know what stopped him from putting a dozen bullets through Rubinstein’s ribs right then and there. 

“Go on,” he said through clenched teeth. “So you treated him like a lab rat. You played with him. With his mind. Stretching the boundaries. What then?” 

“I was trying to cure him!”    
“Bullshit.” Oleg growled. “Spare me the story. I don’t give a shit what you were  _ trying  _ to do. I know what you did. I see it every fucking day. What else?”   
Rubinstein continued, stumbling and stuttering amidst his words more. Oleg heard a faint but steady crunching sound.  _ The rat took the bait.  _ The ropes were giving in. And Oleg waited for Rubinstein to try and get away. He wanted the psychiatrist to feel a tinge of hope. He wanted to see it fall away. A louder crunch. 

Oleg was counting on an attempted escape. Despite himself, he wanted the fucker to suffer. He wanted him to feel a glimpse of what Sergey had gone through. And if Rubinstein was exempt of mental torment, Oleg would make sure he didn’t escape physical retaliation. After all, what else could give him the payback he deserved? The Police? Oleg could only laugh at that; what lawful punishment could compare to what the bastard had done? Oleg didn’t care about others. He didn’t particularly care about Grom. But Rubinstein had meddled with Sergey’s greatest treasure - that brilliant mind of his.

A final loud creak. Oleg turned around. Rubinstein held the pocket knife Oleg had left on the table in front of him, aiming it at Oleg. His hands shook. Oleg titled his head to the side and took a step forward.

“Don’t come any closer,” he extended his arm forward. Oleg stopped for a second, letting Rubinstein loosen his grip the tiniest bit, before he lunged at him. Rubinstein was still under the influence of the cocktail Oleg had injected; his movements were clumsy, slow, almost stunted. Oleg smashed the barrel of the gun against his wrist, making Rubinstein drop the weapon and stumble back. He didn’t wait for the retreat; Oleg struck him in the gut with his knee. Rubinstein doubled over, wheezing, trying to regain some ground. Oleg grabbed him by the collar of his coat, punching him in the throat. Rubinstein gasped, pulling away from Oleg’s grasp. He stumbled backwards toward the wall. Disoriented and woozy, Rubinstein leapt for the door. Oleg watched for a moment, letting the rage inside him simmer. He pocketed this weapon, took off his coat, hanging it on the back of a chair, and strode to Rubinstein. 

“For a second I was thinking of letting you go.” he said. Rubinstein snapped his head in Oleg’s direction, before returning his attention to the lock. “But since we’ve reached this point...”

“Get away from me!” Rubinstein shrieked, turning to face him. He thrust his hands forward, blindly trying to punch Oleg. Volkov dodged a pathetic blow, blocking Rubinstein’s fist and hitting his jaw. His fist connected with Rubinstein’s face with a loud satisfying crunch. The psychiatrist spat out blood, painting the floor and Oleg’s boots with crimson splatter, desperately trying to free his hand from Oleg’s grip.

This wasn’t a fight of equal chance or skill. Not by a long shot. Volkov stood against a weakened, drugged old man, but he didn’t care. Anyway, Oleg didn’t want them to be equal on any ground; he wanted to let the rage he’d been accumulating for months flow freely. He delivered every strike with vicious cold satisfaction. 

“He wasn’t weak, you moron” Oleg hissed between the hits. “He never has been.”Oleg kicked him in the gut. Rubinstein gasped, desperately trying to squirm away. “And he withstood you, your games and treatment and things worse than you could ever imagine.” his bloodied palm closed around Rubinstein’s throat. The man gripped Volkov’s arm with both hands, trying to rip it away, but he was already too weak.

“Please,” he croaked, his eyes bulging. Oleg let go and stepped back. Rubinstein sank to the floor coughing and wheezing, trying to regain what semblance of energy he still had. Oleg took out the gun and aimed at Rubinstein’s chest. One last gratifying sight of utter terror. 

“Sergey sends his regards,” Oleg said, pulling the trigger. Once. Twice. Five times. 

Three bullets to the chest. One to the throat. And one right in the middle of his forehead. 

Oleg didn’t look twice at the corpse. He put on his coat, pocketed the knife, the folder with Sergey’s case and the gun and pulled the canister from underneath the table. His hands were still covered with Rubinstein’s blood. He suspected his face wasn’t free of the grime either.

He poured the oil all over the room. Oleg drenched the corpse. He poured a thin trail of oil behind him as he left the place. He stopped right in front of the wooden shed and lit it up. 

Fire wasn’t exactly his weapon of choice. It was neither efficient nor inconspicuous; fire was loud and spectacular - just as Sergey liked it.

Oleg watched the wisps of flame engulf the whole building. Observing the red and orange bursts of light, the pitch-black smoke that rose high above the shed, Oleg understood Sergey’s twisted preference for fire. It was in the end, a force of cleansing, purging and destruction that was haunting and utterly bewitching.  _ Fire does not discriminate.  _

Oleg pulled out a cigarette, lit it up and stood witness to another painful, hidden scar of the past wither away to ash. 

  
Sergey was asleep when Oleg got home. He stepped closer to the bed, observing the calm rise and fall of Sergey’s chest. _You’re stronger than they think. We’ll fix you._ Oleg leaned in, kissing Sergey’s temple. Sergey’s thick dark lashes fluttered, as he turned his face toward Oleg, still asleep. _One step at a time._


End file.
